


Strangers in a Hotel Bar

by avocadoave



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-10-09 23:24:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10424142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avocadoave/pseuds/avocadoave
Summary: One man. One woman. A hotel bar.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wifegate compliant. This fic takes place post-wedding, before things went to hell.
> 
> Written for @leiascully‘s XF Writing Challenge(s): Hello and Distance. Written in ten minute bursts over several days. Not beta-ed, per the rules. I’m really stretching things to make this fic fit the last two prompts Hello and Distance. 

 

She wandered into the hotel bar, sat down on a stool, tugged the lanyard with her name tag over her head and placed it on the bar in front of her. She rubbed her neck where the nylon strap had scratched and rubbed all day long. 

“What can I get you?” The bartender asked, placing a napkin in front of her. “We’ve got a special drink this month—a Shamrocktini, if you’re interested. It’s vanilla-flavored vodka, mint chocolate Bailey’s, and the rim is dipped in green sugar sprinkles.” 

Scully wrinkled her nose. 

“I know. It’s sounds awful, right?” He said with a smile. 

She nodded. “I’ll take a vodka martini.” 

He set the drink in front of her. “Let me know if you need anything else.” 

“I will. Thank you.” She smiled politely. 

She pulled her phone out of her bag. She had texted, “What are you up to?” to Mulder that morning. Still no response. She sighed and set the phone on the bar. 

She raised her eyes to the television on the wall behind the bar, before she lowered her gaze back to the bottom of her martini glass. 

She absently twisted the ring on her left hand. The barman wondered if that was out of habit or because she wished she wasn’t wearing it. 

She looked up disinterestedly as a tall, dark haired man sat on the neighboring stool. 

He rerolled the cuff of his shirt and swept his eyes slowly over the woman beside him.

The barman walked down to the other end of the bar so he'd be in easy eavesdropping distance and began to clean imaginary cobwebs from the bottles on the shelves. 

"Long day?" the man smiled. 

She turned to face him and smiled. "Is it that obvious?" she replied, scanning him briefly before she sipped the last of her drink. 

"Another drink?" he asked. 

She licked her lips and appeared to debate this for a moment. "Vodka martini." 

The man nodded, clearing his throat to get the barman's attention. "Another vodka martini and—I'll have whatever’s on tap. Thanks." The bartender nodded. 

He looked at her badge. “Doctor Scully? You’re here for the medical conference?” She nodded and looked at his name tag. It was one of those “hello, my name is” stickers. 

“Hello,” she squinted and struggled to read his handwriting, “Geoff.” 

“Geoff,” he repeated. 

“Big Chaucer fan, are you?” she asked. 

“Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote, the droghte of March hath perced to the roote—“ 

She stifled a laugh. 

“What? In college I had to memorize The Prologue of _The Canterbury Tales_ in Middle English. Didn’t you?” 

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s just—you sounded like the Swedish Chef.” He gave her a blank look. 

“You know—the Muppet?” 

He shook his head. 

She took in his appearance—jeans, flannel shirt, boots, a weeks worth of scruff. “So...what are you doing here, Muh, uh, Geoff?” 

He took a sip of his beer. “I’m here for a convention.” 

“Is that right?” 

“Mm. I’m the president-elect of the American Farmers Market Association.” 

She choked on her drink. “Oh, um, I didn’t know that was a thing.” 

“Oh, it’s a thing,” he said seriously. 

“So you’re a, uh, a farmers market expert?” 

“I am. Give me any city in the lower 48 and I can tell you where to get the best fresh produce. Where are you from, Dana?” 

She flinched at his use of her given name. “I practice in Virginia.” 

“That’s pretty vague,” he paused. “Oh, I get it. I’m a stranger and you think if you tell me what city you live in I’m going to, what, to stalk you or something?”

She sighed.

“Well, just for that I’m not going to tell you the best farmers market in Virginia.”

“That’s fine,” she retorted. “My _husband_ knows the best ones to go to anyway.” 

“Husband, huh?” He glances at her left hand. “Does he bring you bouquets of fresh kale? Ripe tomatoes?” 

She takes a sip of her drink and smirks. “How would your wife feel about you chatting up strange women in hotel bars?” 

“Probably pretty good. Even money she’s out doing the same thing.” 

“Picking up strange women in hotel bars?” She asked, raising one perfectly shaped brow. 

He shrugged and took a sip of his beer. “One never knows...” 

She licks her lips. 

“What should you be doing right now?” he asked. 

“I’m supposed to be at a cocktail hour. Wine, cheese, networking.” 

“And why aren’t you?” 

“Well,” she drawled. “There’s an overly friendly pediatrician from Durham with coffee breath and a comb-over that isn’t letting my lack of interest or wedding ring dissuade his, um, advances. I’d like to avoid him—” 

“Want me to kick his ass?” He interrupted. 

She rolled her eyes. “—and if today is anything like the last few APS conferences, the cocktail hour always devolves into something resembling a Roman orgy.” 

“Ooh, kinky.” He raised his brows. “Sure you want to miss that?”

 She frowned. 

“So,” he changed the subject. “Big plans for the weekend?” 

“Tomorrow’s the last day of the conference and then I’m headed home.”

“Excited to get home?” 

“Mm. I haven’t seen my husband in over a week. He was out of town consulting on a case and then I left to come out here.” 

“You miss him?” 

She nodded, and took his hand in hers. “What are you doing here, Mulder?” 

He ran his thumb back and forth over her ring. “Scully, you know I couldn’t let you come to the Pacific Northwest without me. Think of all the memories. Think of all the good times we’ve had out here.” 

She gave him a look. 

“Okay. Think of all the, uh, times we’ve had out here.” He set an old fashioned looking motel key on the bar. 

“What’s this?” 

“A key to a cottage.” 

“I swear to God, Mulder, if this is one of your ‘nice trips to the forest’—“ 

He swallowed uncomfortably at the memories. “No,” he assured her. “No abductions, no monsters, no bugs. It’s not really even the forest. It’s a cottage on the water. Roche Harbor in The San Juan Islands. It’s ours for the entire weekend.” 

“Oh.” 

“It’s our anniversary.” 

“Our anniversary is in July.” 

He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “That’s just our wedding anniversary. _This_ is the anniversary of our partnership. This one is just as important as the other. Maybe more so.” 

She smiled. 

“C’mon. Go get your stuff. We’ve got a 7:50 ferry to catch from Anacortes.” 

“A ferry? Mulder, are you sure that’s a good idea?” 

“Yeah. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” 

“I know it’s a limited data set, but two trips to Martha’s Vineyard, one to Block Island, a ride out to Catalina, and one across Lake Champlain, all say that you and ferries are a bad combination.” 

“I have a Sea-Band, Dramamine and ginger candies. I’m set.” 

“I didn’t exactly bring the right clothes--”

“This weekend is clothing optional.” He waggled his brows.

She gave him a look.

“I brought you clothes. Don’t worry. You go get your stuff from your room and I’ll go to the front desk and get you checked out.”

* * *

The cottage was quaint, but had a big fireplace. She curled up next to him on the rug in front of the fire. 

He handed her a glass of champagne. “Happy Anniversary, partner.” 

“Happy Anniversary, Mulder.” 

Their glasses clinked. They sipped, and he leaned down and kissed her. “Tell me the story,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. 

 He didn’t need to ask which one. “The date was March 6, 1992. It had been a cool March. The average high temperature in D.C. was 53.2°F, more than 4 degrees cooler than the average. It had been rainier than usual, too. The day was overcast, but not rainy. A scant few florets were visible on the cherry trees around the Tidal Basin. The top song on the radio was “To Be With You” by Mr. Big. _Wayne’s World_ was number one at the box office, and America stayed home on Tuesday nights to watch _Roseanne_. It was a simpler time. Moldova had just joined the United Nations, Mike Bossy's #22 was retired by the NY Islanders, President George Bush apologized for raising taxes after pledging not to, the Winter Olympic games closed in Albertville, and Kristi Yamaguchi was America’s sweetheart—“ 

“Oh. My. God, “ she groaned. “Mulder. Who do you think you are? Henry James? This prologue is endless. Get to the good stuff.” 

He smiled. “I was in the basement of the Hoover Building. There was a knock on my office door. A firm rap. ‘Sorry, nobody down here but the FBI’s most unwanted,’ I said. The door opened slowly—“ 

“Agent Mulder, I’m Dana Scully. I’ve been assigned to work with you,” she said.

He smiled down at her. “Oh, isn't it nice to be suddenly so highly regarded. So, who did you tick off to get stuck with this detail, Scully?” 

“Actually, I'm looking forward to working with you. I've heard a lot about you.”

“Oh, really? I was under the impression that you were sent to spy on me.” 

“You forgot the part about you looking at the slides,” she said, poking his side. “And what about my thesis?” 

“Are you telling this story or am I?” he asked. 

“Sorry.” She kissed his neck. 

“Anyway—“


End file.
